“How?”

  “I have to make certain you haven’t got a gun,” Mason told her. “I’m not going to let you get in the car, pull a gun out of your clothes somewhere, put it in the glove compartment, and then–”

  “But you can go in there with me, if you don’t trust me.”

  “We can’t afford to do that, neither of us. Later on, someone will recall seeing me there with you. I’m not entirely unknown, you know. My picture gets in the paper a lot. The parking attendant may recognize me.”

  “How much of a search would you have to make?”

  “Just enough to find out that you haven’t got a gun on you.”

  She clenched her fists. “Go ahead.”

  Mason felt along the lines of her rigid body.

  “Satisfied?”

  Mason nodded.

  “I’m telling you the truth. I wouldn’t lie to my lawyer.”

  “It’s a hell of a story,” Mason said, and eased the car away from the kerb.

  They drove in silence until Mason came to the parking lot.

  “This is it.”

  Mason said, “I’ll run down here a half a block and let you out. You walk back. I’ll double-park if I can get away with it. There doesn’t seem to be any place where I can park here. Get your car, drive out and follow me.”

  She nodded.

  Mason slid the car to a stop. She jerked open the door and jumped out. Mason sat there waiting, watching in the rearview mirror.

  A car some thirty yards ahead pulled out from its place at the kerb, and Mason moved on, making an awkward attempt to park his car. In that way he was able to keep it pointed out in traffic, yet couldn’t have been ticketed for double-parking.

  Sybil Harlan drove her car out of the parking lot, came speeding down the street.

  Mason gunned his car out into traffic, waved her a signal, then slowed, drove down the boulevard, turned to the right on a cross-street, then finally found a place where there was room for two cars. Mason pulled his car to a stop, and Sybil pulled in behind him. The lawyer got out of his car and walked back to her car.

  “Mr Mason, look,” she said, indicating the door of the glove compartment.

  The door was warped back. The catch on the lock had been broken out of its seat.

  Mason’s voice was hard. “I’m looking.”

  “Someone broke in here.”

  “I see,” the lawyer said coldly. “I suppose the only thing missing is the gun?”

  She nodded. “It must have happened just minutes ago. It must have been the police.”

  Mason’s voice was level. “You didn’t say anything to the parking attendant?”

  “Heavens no.”

  “Where did you get the screwdriver?”

  “What screwdriver?”

  “The one you used to pry open the door?”

  “I didn’t do it, Mr Mason. Honestly, I didn’t do it. Look, if I’d done it I’d have the gun, wouldn’t I? Or I’d … well, anyway, I’d have the screwdriver. Search me. Go ahead, search me.”

  Mason shook his head. “The time’s past for that. You’re a client. I’m your lawyer. If you want to lie to me, go ahead. I can tell you one thing, lying to your lawyer or your doctor is an expensive and sometimes a fatal pastime.”

  There were tears in her eyes. “Mr Mason, what can I do to convince you of my good faith?”

  “Nothing, now.”

  “You’ve closed your mind against me, haven’t you?”

  “No. You’re my client. I’m going to see that your rights are protected. I’m going to see that any evidence presented against you is the truth. I’m going to cross-examine any witness who takes the stand and testifies against you.”

  “You don’t believe me, but you’ll represent me?”

  “I’m keeping my opinions in abeyance. I’m going to do what I can. Did you kill Lutts?”

  “No.”

  “All right. I want you to do exactly as I say. Do you have some woman whom you can trust?”

  “You mean to tell what happened?”

  “No, no,” Mason said impatiently. “I mean trust, with ordinary confidence. Someone who’s level-headed, calm, and sufficiently prominent to–”

  “Yes, there’s Ruth Marvel.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s the president of our Current Topics club. She’s remarkably well informed.”

  “And a good friend?”

  “A very good friend.”

  Mason said, “Do exactly as I tell you. Take your car, drive home, go in and change your clothes, put on an entirely different type of outfit – get something dark and sombre. Then ask Ruth Marvel if she’ll go out to look over some property with you, some property that you intend to buy. Tell her that it’s very important, that you’d like to have her opinion on it, but don’t tell her where the property is.”

  Sybil Harlan nodded.

  “Tell her that you’ll be by for her,” Mason said. “Then grab thepaper and open it to property that’s listed for sale in the classified ads. Find a place that’s not too far away but a place that’s on the outskirts somewhere.”

  Again Mrs Harlan nodded.

  “Are you getting this?” Mason asked.

  “Yes, it’s simple.”

  “It’s simple,” Mason said, “but it’s tricky as hell. You have to do exactly what I tell you to do.”

  “All right. I get Ruth Marvel. I get her to go with me. I get the listings of property that’s not too far out.”

  “That’s right. Now then, we come to the tricky part. After you have Ruth Marvel ready to go with you, you get in your car and start out. Then you tell your friend that the trouble with looking at property in your own machine is that there’s always somebody to take down the licence number – they trace the number, find out who owns the automobile, and then you’re pestered to death with real estate salesmen trying to interest you in that property or selling you something else. You always prefer starting out in your car but take a taxi for the last part of the trip. Do you understand?”

  Mrs Harlan nodded.

  “So,” Mason said, “you then remember something you have to telephone about. You get out of your car at a telephone booth. You telephone the Drake Detective Agency. Here’s the number. I’ve written it on one of my cards. You ask for Paul Drake. You tell him who you are. Now then, Paul Drake will tell you where to drive. You drive to this address, stop at the first available parking space, park your car and get out.

  “Within a few minutes a taxicab will come along. Now, be sure it’s a Red Line taxicab. Try not to pay too much attention to it, and don’t be too conspicuous. You settle back in the car and tell the driver to drive on down the street, that you want to look at several pieces of property. Tell your friend that you have suddenly discovered you’re short of money but that if she’ll pay for the cab and save the receipt, you’ll give her the money later. Tell her to be sure to save the receipt so that you can have a proper voucher for your income tax deduction.”

  “Mr Mason, this is all terribly complicated and–”

  “Shut up,” Mason said. “Listen. We haven’t much time. Do exactly as I tell you. Have the cab drive around several streets while you look at different houses. When the meter registers a dollar and sixty-five cents, have him turn around and drive back in the direction of the place where you have parked your car. Under no circumstances are you to say anything more than the bare necessities to the taxi driver. Be sure and get Ruth to pay off the cab. Encourage her to talk with the cab driver as much as possible, and when the meter reaches two dollars and ninety-five cents, apparently come to the last place you were looking for. Stop the driver and have Ruth pay off the cab. Tell Ruth to give him three dollars and a half, and you’ll pay her later. Do you understand all that?”

  “I understand it, Mr Mason. But it seems to me we’re wasting a lot of valuable time, and I don’t see why–”

  “If you understand what you’re to do,” Mason interrupted, “you’re wasting time talking about it. Just be sure you understand exactly what you’re to do.”

  She took the card Mason had given her with Paul Drake’s number. “Very well,” she said dubiously, “I’ll do it and–”

  “Now don’t misunderstand me,” Mason said. “Your life may depend on it. You do exactly as I have told you. Follow instructions to the letter. You understand?”

  “I understand, but there’s no need to do that with Ruth. I can tell her exactly what I’m trying to do, and–”

  “Don’t do it,” Mason warned. “Do exactly as I’ve told you. You may be able to get a lucky break – and you may not.”

  Chapter Six

  Mason unlocked the exit door of his private office.

  Della Street looked up from the evening newspaper. “How goes it?” she asked.

  “We’ve got work to do, Della. Thanks for the note.”

  “Chief, did you notice her shoes and stockings?”

  “I didn’t see any difference, Della. They looked just the same to me.”

  “Well, they aren’t the same. The other shoes, the ones she wore this morning, were open-toed and had a small design in red leather at the instep. The shoes she had on this afternoon were solid white sport shoes, with no design in colour and no open toes.”

  “What about the stockings?” Mason asked.

  “Well, Chief, this morning when she was in I took particular notice of the way she was dressed – you know how we women are about such matters – and I was impressed by the way she had matched every piece of her outer clothing. Her white shoes with just enough red trim to match the off-white jacket with red trim, the white bag and white pleated skirt. But I especially took note of her stockings. They were a very soft flesh shade, so that they blended in with the white skirt and shoes and yet did not make her legs appear too pale, and they were seamless. That was important with that outfit.

  “But this afternoon when she was in, she wore hose that were on the beige side – and they had seams.”

  “Well, of course, she could have changed them,” Mason said.

  “When? Didn’t she take you up there to the house and then go directly to the beauty shop?”

  “I think that was her plan. I didn’t cross-examine her to find out if she’d changed her plans.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Mason said, grinning, “I thought it would be better not to know the answers. Thanks for the tip, Della, but after all, she’s our client. We’re representing her. We take her story at face value.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “We go down to Paul Drake’s office. He’s probably got that taxi located by this time, and Mrs Harlan is going to call his number as soon as she gets a friend of hers located.”

  “Was her gun in the car?” Della Street asked.

  Mason’s face was wooden. “Someone had broken into the glove compartment. The gun was missing. Let’s go.”

  Mason held the door open for her, and they walked down the corridor to Paul Drake’s office.

  The girl at the switchboard looked up, recognized Mason, nodded and pointed to the wooden gate which barred a long passageway, on each side of which were numerous small offices.

  Mason worked the hidden catch on the gate, opened it for Della Street, and they walked down to Paul Drake’s office.

  Drake looked up as they entered, nodded, and then devoted his attention to earphones which were clamped over his head.

  Mason raised his eyebrows in silent interrogation, and Drake threw a switch which put the sound on a loudspeaker.

  Mason heard the voice of a taxicab dispatcher droning off directions. “Cab three-twenty-eight to the Brown Derby in Hollywood, a Mr Culber … Come in, two-fourteen … come in, two-fourteen …” A man’s gruff voice said, “Cab two-fourteen on a call to eighty-one hundred block on South Figueroa …”

  Drake switched off the loudspeaker, took one of the headphones from his ear, said, “Hi, Perry. How are you, Della? Just a monitoring chore.”

  “Keeping track of seven-sixty-one?” Mason asked.

  “That’s right. I’m on the frequency of the Red Line dispatching office.”

  Mason said, “Gosh, Paul, I hadn’t thought of tuning in on their wavelength so as to keep track of their cabs. I thought you’d have to put out operatives. Where did you get that gadget?”

  “Oh, we keep them around,” Drake said. “Occasionally, it’s a good thing to monitor police calls, find out about taxicabs, and so forth. It saves us a lot of leg work, and sometimes the cab companies don’t want to give out that information.”

  “Heard anything from Mrs Harlan?” Mason asked.

  Drake shook his head, then said, “Wait a minute. Here’s cab seven-sixty-one now.”

  Drake made a note on a pad of paper and said, “He’s out in Beverly Hills, coming in on Sunset toward Hollywood, running empty, has completed a call.”

  Mason said, “Hang it! I wish we’d hear from that Harlan woman, but after all, she had a few things to take care of.”

  “What’s the idea?” Drake asked.

  Mason said, “You should know me better than that, Paul. I just want to keep a taxicab located, that’s all.”

  “Witness?” Drake asked.

  Mason grinned, winked at Della Street and said, “Witness.”

  They waited for an impatient twenty minutes, then the phone rang. Paul Drake answered the phone, said, “Yes … oh yes … Mrs Harlan.”

  Mason reached for the phone. “I’ll take it, Paul. Where’s cab seven-sixty-one?”

  Drake said, “The last reports we had he’d picked up a fare and – wait a minute, here’s something coming in now.”

  “You ready, Mrs Harlan?” Mason asked on the line.

  “All ready.”

  “You have Ruth Marvel with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good girl,” Mason said approvingly. “Hold on for a minute.”

  Drake said, “Cab seven-sixty-one has picked up a fare in Hollywood and is going out to the end of North La Brea. There’s a movie actress has a swank place out there, and he has a call to her house.”

  “This is made to order, Mrs Harlan,” Mason said. “Go out almost to the end of North La Brea, park your car and wait. The Red Line cab will be cruising back toward town, looking for fares. Be sure you get out past the point where Franklin Street runs into La Brea. And be sure you take the Red Line cab going south. I’ll wait here until you phone me. Now make it fast. You can just about make connections with the cab. If I don’t hear from you in fifteen minutes, I’ll assume that you have made connections. If you haven’t, call me back in fifteen minutes. Is that clear?”

  “That’s clear.”

  “Get going,” Mason said.

  “I’m going,” she said, and he heard the click of the telephone.

  Mason dropped into one of Drake’s chairs, said, “Why don’t you get some decent chairs here, Paul?”

  “I can’t afford it,” Drake told him, grinning.

  “I pay you enough so you could have–”

  “It isn’t that,” Drake interrupted. “I can’t afford to have my clients relax the way you do. I want to keep them on the edge of the chair. Still want me to monitor seven-sixty-one?”

  “Yes,” Mason said. “I’d like to see if he makes a pickup coming back from his run.”

  Mason lit a cigarette, picked up one of the late issues of the Journal of Criminal Law, Criminology, and Police Science, and became immersed in the section dealing with criminal law, case notes and comments.

  Della Street sat quietly, waiting, knowing that this period of suspense would start Mason pacing the floor unless his mind was kept occupied. She raised her forefinger to her lips in a signal to Paul Drake.

  Drake nodded to show that he understood.

  The office became silent, Drake holding the earphones, from time to time making notes, Mason completely absorbed in his reading, Della Street occasionally exchanging signals with Drake.

  Drake, at length, looked up at Della Street, nodded, held thumb and forefinger together in a circle.

  Della Street started to say something, then changed her mind and waited until Mason had finished reading the journal and tossed it to one side.

  “Any news, Paul?”

  “Cab seven-sixty-one reports that it picked up a fare on North La Brea and is on a trip to look at some property that’s for sale in the southwestern part of the city.”

  Mason grinned at Della Street. “Okay, Della, let’s go back to our office and wait this one out. Then I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “How about me?” Drake asked.

  “What about you?”

  “Dinner?”

  “Oh, sure,” Mason said. “Good Lord, Paul, I wouldn’t want you to sit here and work without dinner.”

  Drake took off the headphones, clicked the switch, stretched and yawned. “A good steak and French-fried potatoes will go good after all the–”

  “It’ll be a job getting it sent up,” Mason interrupted.

  “Now, wait a minute,” Drake protested. “You mean I can have dinner but I can’t go out?”

  “Sure,” Mason said. “Get anything you want sent up, but stick around on the end of that telephone for a while. Things are going to happen.”

  Drake sighed. “I should have known it. I’ve ruined my stomach earning per diems and eating hamburgers, while you and Della are collecting big fees and revelling in juicy steaks.”

  “Just one of the inequities of the world,” Mason assured him, grinning. “Want me to order a couple of hamburgers for you, Paul? How do you want them – with relish and chopped onion or – ?”

  “Go to hell,” Drake said.

  Mason grinned at him, motioned to Della, and they walked out.

  “Can you,” Della Street asked, “tell me what you’re up to?”

  Mason shook his head. “Better not. See if you can get Herbert Doxey on the telephone, Della.”

  Della Street walked rapidly down the corridor, fitted her latchkey to the lock of the door to Mason’s private office. They entered and Della Street ran through the telephone directory, jotted down a number.

  “Got it?” Mason asked.

  “I think so.”

  Della Street dialled the number, then after a moment said, “Mr Doxey …? Just a moment. Mr Mason wants to talk with you.”